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What: US forces make their last push in the Aisne-Marne counter offensive,
taking a hamlet on the banks of the Aisne River. MacIntyre, Rothschild,
Grant and Duncan are all plucked for that push. Rothschild is promoted to
corporal and leads the mission, much to his dismay. They manage to take the
hamlet and capture several Germans, but only after a long stalemate with a
machine gun and the death of one of the Marine, who leaves his comrades to
go it alone and pays the ultimate price.

Forest
====================================[The Grid]----- THE LOST GENERATION

Tall, regal trees reach for the sky as they have for hundreds of years,
their crowns lending welcome shade in the summer and frosty artwork in the
winter. Old leaves cover the ground, but obscured by plentiful underbrush,
they are more felt than seen when walking over them. It is an oasis in an
area otherwise covered by farmland, left alone to flourish where elsewhere
the hand of man has cut down every tree for their own needs.

It is currently daytime.

Contents
MacIntyre
Rothschild
Grant
Robby
Death

East E North N

Duncan Idaho has arrived.

MacIntyre leans against a tree, checking his rifle for the hundredth time.
Trying not to show his nervousness.

MacIntyre's Desc
A young man in his early twenties, Gil MacIntyre has a wholesome, clean-cut
look about him. His black hair is cut short, his bangs just a little longer
than the rest. His square jaw seems incapable of growing even the slightest
stubble. His blue eyes are bright, not yet dulled by the horrors of war.

MacIntyre is dressed in the olive green woolen uniform of the USMC. It seems
a little baggy on him. His doughboy helmet is a askew on his head. Tan
puttees are wrapped over his standard-issue Pershing boots. His web gear is
fairly weighed down with pouches, a bayonet scabbard, and canteen.

Rothschild is leaning against a tree neighboring Mac's. His rifle hangs at
his shoulder. At the ready, but he seems satisfied it's been checked enough.
He's smoking, as always. Deep, long drags.

Rothschild's Desc
Private Benjamin Rothschild isn't the typical rough-tough Marine that
usually comes to mind when one thinks of the American devil dogs. He's
medium height, with a lean form made of long arms and legs that make him
seem both taller and lighter than he really is. He's got some muscle to him,
but his build is taut and wiry rather than hulking. A middleweight in a
world full of heavies. His straight brown hair is short, a well-trimmed cut
that could pass for stylish if he had time to comb it a little neater. He
has a lean, clean-shaven face, light skin tanned by the sun, with dark hazel
eyes and a long, beaky nose. It's slightly crooked, as if it's been broken
sometime in the past. His hands are long-fingered, dexterous, with neatly
trimmed nails, and look made for more subtle work than firing a rifle. He's
in his early or mid-twenties, still young, but older than a lot of the kids
on the front lines. When he speaks a light accent tinges his voice, marking
him as New Jersey born to those who listen closely.
He's clad in the standard-issue workmanlike khaki that clothes every other
American soldier. The patches and other small details denote him as a member
of the United States Marine Corps. A doughboy pot helmet covers his head
most of the time and his canteen and gas mask are typically close at hand. A
single stripe of rank marks him as a private, first class.

MacIntyre finally pushes off his tree and makes the short trip over to Roth.
"Hurry up and wait, eh?" he comments bleakly. The waiting is the worst.

Robby is currently engaged in the complex and draining task of throwing a
rock up in the air, and catching it, bravely displaying what looks to be
slight boredom on his face. His own rifle is swung over his sholuder.

Grant humms a little as he looks around at the others from where he's
leaning against another of the trees. He eats something that would appear to
be a bit of chocolate as well, looking between the others for a few moments.

Grant's Desc
The young man in front of you seems to be in the late parts of his teen or
the early twenties. He's not quite tall, only standing at about 5'6", and
quite slender, yet still a bit muscular. He's got short, black hair, that is
more often than not rather well taken care of, and is carefully kept away
from his forehead and eyes. Slightly triangular facial features helps give
him an almost predator-like look, especially together with blueish green
eyes that seems to watch the world a bit calculatingly. Other facial
features include a slightly hawk-like nose, that appears to have broken at
some time or the other, thin, rather pale lips that seems more often than
not to be set in a bit of a smirk, and the rather white teeth hiding behind
those lips. His ears seems to be slightly larger than the average, and
stands out a little bit from the rest of his head. When he speaks it's with
the accent of someone from Philadelphia.

The soldier is clad in the standard-issued workmanlike woollen khaki jacket,
which is loose-necked and baggy, and detailed with blackened metal buttons.
The lower part of the body is covered by baggy woollen trousers topped
sturdy, lace-up, ankle-length boots made entirely of leather and hobnailed
for extra grip. Puttees are bound around the legs of the pants from ankle to
knee and useful in preventing water and mud from sloshing within, if
constrictive at times. He is wearing a doughboy pot helmet on his head. He
has a pack on, canteen on his butt, and of course, a gas mask hanging from
his neck at all times.

Rothschild gets a chuckle out of Mac's comment, puffing some smoke out
through his nose. "I'll take waiting any day over the alternative," he says.
Though his chain smoking suggests his own nerves are being tested by it. He
glances over at Robby, his hazel eyes following the up and down path of the
rock. Gives him something to focus on.

MacIntyre digs a little hole with the toe of his boot. "Suppose so," he
admits grudgingly to Rothschild's comment. He seems to notice Grant's
chocolate, and rummages around in his pack to see if he's got any of his own
left over.

Robby keeps that rock moving, up and down, up and down. "It's not like, by
waiting, the battle might be posponed. It's going to happen, and I'd rather
it happen in time for use to get back for chow."

Duncan walks behind others and takes speed up as the others gather, "Good
day fellas." he says, "I am Duncan. From Texas." he says to all. He gets his
rifle ready and hrms…

Rothschild follows Mac's eyes to that chocolate. "Hey, pal, where'd you get
that?" he asks, an almost boyish light sparking in his hazel eyes. That's
better than cigarettes. He offers a quick nod to Duncan, but his main focus
is the candy.

"MacIntyre." He stops rummaging and steps over to extend a hand to Duncan.
His attention is somewhat distracted by Roth's quest for chocolate.
"Maryland."

Grant grins a little, "Well, I promised that I wouldn't tell, so the person
I got it from wouldn't have trouble to get more," he offers, before he grins
at the one doing introductions. "Bill Grant, from good old Philly."

Robby looks over to Grant, and the rock stops it's repetive journey for a
bit. /Everyone/ loves chocalate. "You know, its not good to wolf down
chocolate in front of other soldiers, say you have a source, and then say
your bound to secreacy. Now everyone's gonna know there's chocolate about."
He gives his own nod to Duncan. "Name's Robby, from California. Hell, I
could say Mexico, for how close we are.

"Ben Rothschild. New Jersey," Rothschild puts in, as for his own home.
"Newark, by birth. Closer to Canada than Mexico, on my end. Share and share
alike, pal?" That last request is directed at Grant. He's intent on his
chocolate quest.

Duncan nods his head and shakes the hand, "Well I am pretty new around here.
What are we going to do?"

"Continuing the advance, I thought," Mac replies to Duncan. He shrugs a bit,
not really knowing or caring beyond that.

Grant shrugs a bit, and takes out a few more chocolate bars from a pocket of
the uniform, handing them over to the others. "Don't say I'm not a nice guy,
now," he offers, with a bit of a grin.

Rothschild nods along with Mac's answer. "We're waiting on specifics from
the brass," he adds to Duncan. "We're just low men on the grand old Marine
totem pole. 'Tis not for us to reason why, and all of that." He doesn't want
to finish that quote. He smiles, truly grateful, when Grant hands out the
chocolate. "I owe you, Philly," he says, before tearing into it. He even
puts out his cigarette, to get the full flavor of the chocolate.

Robby takes a bar of chocolate from Grant, and gives his own grateful nod.
"A regualar choclate factory, you are. I should ask if you have any stashed
that we could trade the kids of the town for services." A grin, then a
pensive look as hs snaps his fingers. " 'Charge of the Light Brigade',
right? Written when the Brits were at war over the Crimerian Sea, I think."

"Terrific," Macintyre says, taking the chocolate with a grin. "Thanks." He
mmms at the candy, savoring it. "And thanks to your mysterious source."

Rothschild smirks at Robby, nodding. "Right. It used to be one of my
favorites. I loved war stories when I was a kid." He says it dryly, as if
he's thinking differently of them now. He eats his chocolate slowly,
savoring the taste.

Grant grins a bit as he listens, and pushes away from the tree to walk
around for a few moments. "I wish they could just send us in so we could get
this thing done…"

Robby nods to MacIntyre. "Yep. Supposedly, there were a light calvary
regiment who charged into firece fire and came out almost destoryed. I think
this was during… the 1810's, I think. Sometime near the Napolonic Wars."
He turns to Rothschild. "Have you read, "The Red Badge of Courage"?

The Aisne river is just up ahead. You are in the valley around it, shell
scarred from the Aisne offensive which blew through here a month back. The
marching lines of soldiers pause for a moment, as NCOs rush down the line,
giving out last minute orders.

"When the Brits fought the Russians," Rothschild explains to Mac. "Forward,
the Light Brigade!" Rothschild says, calling up the poetry easily. His voice
falls into a flowing rhythm as he recites it. "Was there a man dismay'd? Not
tho' the soldiers knew, some one had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply,
theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die…" Rothschild trails off
for a moment. He's not liking this poem so much anymore. "Into the valley of
Death rode the six hundred." He falls silent, waiting for orders, his face
suddenly somber.

"Well that's cheery," MacIntyre replies with an eyeroll as Rothschild quotes
him the poem. "Fitting, I suppose." He sharpens up as the orders start
coming down.

A sarge gives Rothschild a sour look. "This isn't the Crimea, and we are not
blundering, Marine. I'll have no defeatism in these ranks. Specially as
there is no cause for it.". He draws out a photograph. "Our buddies, the
RAF, actually did a good job for a change. I know, I know, I can hardly
believe it myself."

Robby grimaces. "It's times like these I revel in the fact that my education
wasn't as good as it could of been. Knowledge is perhaps-" Gah. Not the time
to philophise. He gives a sharp nod to the Sergeant, and takes a look at the
drawn photograph, an involutary smile coming to his lips upon seeing it.

"Yes, sir," Rothschild replies to the officer. He's done with the poetry.
Word about the RAF does cheer him and he nods shortly. He likes the fly
boys.

MacIntyre nudges Rothschild a bit as he sees the picture, looking
questioningly at the young man as if to ask: that your doing? He knows that
Roth's gone up a couple of times with the fliers. He listens attentively to
the briefing.

Duncan is just listenning and hanging around

Grant nods a little as he listens to the others, smiling momentarily to
himself. Looks like he's finally getting to do something useful around here.

The sarge indicates a hamlet marked on the map. It has no name. It looks
like its pretty much just a farmhouse. "Fritz is pulling back across the
river. Looks like they are in quite a state of panic as well. There is a
jetty here at the hamlet, so it needs to be captured. There are a lot of
wounded Germans, but theres quite a few combat ready ones as well. They've
been digging in for a while, but you'll be glad to hear they don't have
proper trenches yet. We got to hit them hard and right now, before they dig
in and get wire up."

Robby nods once again, taking a few cursory glances at the photograph. He
saw this place from the air a few days ago. What a differance that made! "We
getting any support? Artillery or airplanes?"

"Or tanks?" MacIntyre adds to Robby's question, having been impressed by the
difference Byrd's tank made the last time around.

Rothschild leans his long nose forward to get a better look at that map,
pursing his lips as he takes in the features of it. He nods a little. But at
Mac's nudge he shakes his head. He didn't shoot that one. He gets to see
this particular place for the first time on the ground.

The sarge eyes Robby. "Yeah. Maybe you didn't hear? This is the support!" he
says, waving the map. "As for artillery, forget it, its twenty miles that
way." he says, pointing to the west. "In fact, artillery is something we
want to be careful about, as Fritz has plenty of batteries on the other side
of the Aisne, and our own arty is too far away to counterbattery it."

Duncan hrms, "We are going to attack a place which there are wounded are
gathered?" he shakes his head, "That is lame.

Grant shrugs a little as he listens to what's being said, especially about
having to hit them right now. "Then what are we waiting for?" he mutters
under his breath. Seems like he's all ready to go.

The sarge grins at Grant. "Yeah. Can't pick out any machineguns on the map.
They might have one in the hamlet somewhere but you're probably good beyond
that."

Rothschild purses his lips as he listens to the sergeant. It sounds simple
enough. But he still looks pensive. He hasn't seen anything simple so far.

Forest
=====================================[The Grid]----- THE LOST GENERATION

Tall, regal trees reach for the sky as they have for hundreds of years,
their crowns lending welcome shade in the summer and frosty artwork in the
winter. Old leaves cover the ground, but obscured by plentiful underbrush,
they are more felt than seen when walking over them. It is an oasis in an
area otherwise covered by farmland, left alone to flourish where elsewhere
the hand of man has cut down every tree for their own needs.

Rothschild barely has time to register the corporal's stripes he's handed
when he's put in charge of the mission. He certainly doesn't have time to
put them on. He does not look particularly thrilled with the move up. But,
time enough to worry about that later. "We better get moving, boys," he
says. "Head north together for now. The woods should give us some cover. Try
to keep from being spotted. We may have to split when we get closer to the
hamlet, but I don't want to get separated until it's necessary. Everybody
ready?"

"All ready," Grant replies, with a bit of a grin.

MacIntyre nods to Rothschild, readying his rifle. "Congratulations," he says
rather half-heartedly. He wouldn't want to be in charge for anything.

Rothschild smirks at MacIntyre. "Thanks," he mutters. "Come on. Let's get
this over with." With that, he starts the trek north.

MacIntyre :glances to Duncan, "You want to be on your own?" he asks, in a
way that heavily implies that he doesn't.

Duncan points east to roths, than himself and waits for acknowledgement

Ground Combat You notice Grant arrive at Forest.

Rothschild slips through the woods as quickly and quietly as he can,
scanning the map of their mission while he does so. He shakes his head at
Duncan. "We're sticking together for now," he says. The 'for now' part he
chews on thoughtfully. He keeps heading north.

Ground Combat Rothschild moves North N.
Ground Combat You are now peeking into Forest.

Wilhelm ducks when a bullet kicks up the dirt in front of his face, and
stays ducked, just the helmet and rifle protruding from his hole.

Grant makes his way forward as well, before starting to duck down at the
shooting. Looking around to see where the enemy is before he'll shoot them.

MacIntyre curses as his shot hits the edge of Wilhelm's foxhole.

Ground Combat Wilhelm tries to fire his Kar98k at Rothschild but his weapon
is jammed!

Wilhelm mutters as his gun jams, and decides to high tail it outta here
rather than wait to unjam the damn thing.

Ground Combat MacIntyre fires his Springfield at Wilhelm but misses!

Rothschild tries to get into a good shooting position, still swearing under
his breath. "Looks like he's tucked in up there," he says. "Not very well,
but better than we are." He readies his rifle for another shot, while
Wilhelm is jammed up.

MacIntyre grits his teeth and peers over the edge of the foxhole. "Just our
luck," he mutters. He looks around, "Where's Idaho?"

Ground Combat You hear the sound of Rifles from Wheatfield (2 1)!
Ground Combat Grant fires his Springfield at Mikael but misses!
Ground Combat You hear the sound of Machine Guns from Hamlet (1 3)!
Ground Combat Mikael fires his MG 08 at MacIntyre but misses!

Rothschild blinks. In all the shooting, he's just now realizing they're
short a man. "I don't know. He was with us back in the woods. Maybe he got
turned around in the trees." He grits his teeth. "We can't go and hunt for
him now. I hope whatever got he believes in is watching out for him." Seeing
Grant fire he yells, "Get your ass into some cover, Philly!"

Ground Combat Rothschild fires his Springfield at Mikael but misses!
Ground Combat You hear the sound of Rifles from Wheatfield (2 2)!

Grant grimaces a bit as he hears the sound of that machine gun, and then
crouches down to find a place where he can get off a clean shot. Pausing for
a few moments longer, he moves forward, looks around momentarily and fires
off the shot, frowning a little as he misses.

MacIntyre ducks for a moment as bullets rake the dirt above the foxhole. He
snaps a shot off back at the machineguner, but it hits a sandbag or
something. He sees Grant go down and winces. "Damn!" Now they're short two.
His mouth twists in a grim frown.

Rothschild sees Grant go down in a hail of machine gun fire, unable to tell
if the other Marine is alive or dead. "Shit," he says again. It's getting to
be a regular catch phrase with him. He has to pause to reload his weapon,
his nimble fingers scrambling. "Keep shooting for now. We're not in a great
position here, and he's got a hell of a lot of bullets to spend on that
thing. I need to think…damn…."

MacIntyre shakes his head, muttering under his breath. He's not eager to
leave their cover, but does ask, "Grenade, maybe?"

Ground Combat MacIntyre fires his Springfield at Mikael but misses!

Rothschild nods to Mac. "It'll have to come to that eventually. He's dug
himself a nice little nest over there. But we can't hit him with a grenade
from here. We'll have to get closer for that, and leaving cover right now is
suicide."

MacIntyre continues to fire, even though it seems kind of bleak right now.
He hears rifle fire and notes, "Sounds like someone else is out there." He
spares a glance toward where Grant fell, trying to see if the other fellow
is still alive.

Ground Combat MacIntyre fires his Springfield at Mikael and hits!
Mikael suffers 1 wound damage to his left arm.

Rothschild nods tersely to MacIntyre. "I hear them. I can't tell if they're
friend of foe, though." He grins when the Marine manages to hit the tucked
in machine gunner. "Nicely done." He can't hide his surprise. "You doing
okay, with that bullet in your stomach?"

Rothschild hastily reloads his weapon and gets back to the business of
shooting. He has some hope now that the machine gunner has been hit. Some
very faint hope. "Yeah…" he says softly, as to Grant. He lines up another
shot. "It's times like this I wish I were more of a praying man. Funny thing
is, I've done more praying since I came here than I did in the last five
years back in Jersey."

Rothschild shrugs, getting ready to fire off another shot. "Maybe. I can
barely remember half the prayers these days." He's got less philosophical
matters to worry about at the moment, though. "My dad was always better
about that stuff than me."

Rothschild flinches as machine gun bullets pepper the ground right by him.
He mutters some religiously fervent profanity under his breath.

Ground Combat Rothschild fires his Springfield at Mikael but misses!
Ground Combat MacIntyre fires his Springfield at Mikael but misses!

MacIntyre grimaces as they come under fire from yet another German. "Damn,
more of them." He peers, but can't see where the shots came from.
Rothschild glances to the south. "There's another one of them down there,"
he says. "I'll concentrate on him. You keep the machine gunner busy. Shit.
They've got us pinned."

Gerhard takes a bullet to the chest.. Poor Gerhard had dreams, dreams of
going to see his Wife again.. Dreams of going and having a family. Dreams no
more, little Gerhard, dreams no more. As the bullet exits through the
germans chest, he is vaulted off his feet to smack against the mud, coughing
up blood. He fumbles around, the grenade falling from his hand as he kicks
and writhes, his back arching up into the air, before he falls still. Litte
Gerhard won't be going home, not this time, nor any other time.

Ground Combat MacIntyre fires his Springfield at Mikael and hits!
Mikael suffers 3 wound damage to his right arm.

Rothschild pokes out of the foxhole at the word, 'Surrender.' "Well I'll be
God damned…" He keeps his own weapon close, holding up at hand at Mac.
"Hold your fire for a second."

Grant blinks as he hears that, and looks over at the Germans, looking quite
surprised for a few moments, "Looks like we're managing to take prisoners?"
he says, after a few moments.

MacIntyre takes a moment to realize that they were trying to surrender, but
then he dutifully holds his fire. He reloads though, just in case.

Ground Combat MacIntyre reloads his Springfield!

Rothschild shouts, "(IN GERMAN) 'SURRENDER? KEEP YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR AND
YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED. IF THERE IS SOME TRICK, YOU WILL BE KILLED.'"

Rothschild motions the three Marines forward. "Keep your guns up and trained
on them, but -don't- fire unless they try something," he says. He still
can't believe it.

Ground Combat Rothschild moves East E.

Hamlet
====================================[The Grid]----- THE LOST GENERATION

Located near the river, a hamlet has sprung up. A few farmsteads, old but
still serviceable before the war have been partly shelled. They've also seen
use by German troups as a billet. Even so, a few of the houses seem to be
still occupied by old stubborn locals who have refused to move, despite the
dangers. An old white cow grazes on a small field behind the buildings,
having miraculously escaped the war alive. So far.

Rothschild comes in slowly, his rifle up and trained on the Germans. But he
does not fire. Who is in charge here? he asks in German. He's quite fluent,
though his Jersey accent might be hard to parse.

Grant makes his way over as well, with his rifle ready to use should this be
any kind of trick.

Duncan is just laying on his pool of blood

Rothschild winces at the sight of Duncan. Looks like they found the lost
Marine.

Diedrick holds his hands up high in the air, stepping out of the house.

Duncan looks like french cheese
Duncan has holes everywhere

MacIntyre arrives from Forest.

Mikael is doing likewise and is warily watching the approaching marines.
He's got some problems standing though and is kind of just leaning up
against the trench wall instead.

Duncan has left.

MacIntyre finally emerges from the foxhole and follows the others
cautiously.

Grant looks between the Germans a bit carefully, and also glances at Duncan,
grimacing slightly. He knows how it feels to get shot at.

Rothschild looks untouched, as far as bullet holes are concerned. He's dirty
from rolling around in the foxhole, but that isn't paining him any. "Keep an
eye on them," he says to Grant, his own rifle staying trained on the Germans
as they approach. "MacIntyre needs a medic. Are you okay?" He winces at the
memory of Grant and that hail of machine gun fire earlier.

Grant nods a little, "Nothing that can't wait until we've taken care of
this," he replies, keeping an eye on those Germans.

MacIntyre wraps a field bandage around his abdomen. Doesn't seem to have
much effect, but it makes him feel better. He glances at Grant, "Nice to see
you, Philly," he says, adopting Roth's nickname. He waves off Rothschild.
"I'm all right."

Mikael isn't feeling well, he can't hold his wounded arms up. Can I lower my
arms? he asks carefully in German, adressing Rothschild. I have no strength
left in them.

"Likewise," Grant offers, with a half-grin. He keeps his eyes on the Germans
at the moment, quietly.

MacIntyre peers at the wounded Germans, muttering to Rothschild, "You want
me to tend to them, Roth?" He's got his first aid kit out already.

Rothschild snorts at MacIntyre's 'I'm all right.' "Let the docs decide
that," he says. But the man doesn't look like he's about to keel over. He
concentrates on getting the Germans corralled, eyeing Mikael. He tries not
to look at Duncan, nodding. Fine. Sit down. They'll be some MPs by to take
care of you, soon. He pauses and then adds, a bit dryly, Your war is over
now. He nods to Mac. "Fine." He doesn't like seeing them shot up, Jerries or
no.

Mikael lets out a sigh of relief and nods at Rothschild. He sits down on an
old overturned wheelcart outside, lowering his hands carefully to his lap.

MacIntyre goes to Mikael, since he seems the most shot up. Much of it from
Mac's own bullets. Not speaking any German, he motions to his first aid kit
then to Mikael's wounds, silently asking for permission.

Diedrick keeps his arms slightly raised, though not as high as before.
Nobody can hold them up like that for too long. He exchanges a look with
Mikael, giving his German fellow a small, reassuring smile.

Mikael hesitates for a moment, then nods to MacIntyre. He needs it, or he
might lose an arm if he's not careful.

MacIntyre tends to the Germans' wounds, one by one. He's not that great at
it, but he at least manages to stop the bleeding.

You can put your arms down, Rothschild says to Diedrick, finally. But stay
perfectly still. He keeps that rifle of his on the prisoners. Not that he
looks primed to shoot them. He just can't believe it's over. He's waiting
for the other shoe to drop. He watches MacIntyre tend the Germans, then
reaches behind his ear. For the cigarette he's got in reserve there. He
needs a smoke.

Diedrick trembles a bit and lowers his arms thankfully, taking a seat in the
trench. He's tired, tired of the war, the killing, the mud… I just want to
go home.

MacIntyre finishes tending to the Germans. He seems to recognize Mikael as
the fellow behind the machinegun, and offers him a canteen. There's a
grudging respect in his eyes.

Grant still keeps his eyes on the enemies, shrugging a little to himself. "I
guess we did quite well, all in all?" he asks.

Mikael feels better already, after MacIntyre's ministrations. Patched up and
no longer bleeding all over, he has high hopes of surviving this. He nods
curtly to MacIntyre, still a bit wary of the MarineCorps' intentions. The
canteen is accepted with a fumbling hand, and he drinks thirstily. The
grudging respect is met with one equal of his own.

MacIntyre returns the nod, and once he's retrieved his canteen, he goes over
to pull a poncho over Duncan's body. To Rothschild, he notes, "His own damn
fault for wandering off. You did good, Corporal." He offers a slight grin at
the fellow's new rank.

"We did what we needed to do," Rothschild says to Grant with a nod. "You men
both held up great. The brass'll be proud, I'm sure." He blinks when Mac
calls him 'Corporal'. Oh, yeah. That. "I guess I'll have to sew on my
stripes tonight," he mutters. He sounds more mournful about the promotion
than anything else.

Diedrick actually gives Rothschild a sympathetic look, having understood
part of the conversation. Especially the 'Corporal' part.

Rothschild blinks when he sees Diedrick's sympathetic look. He shrugs
noncommittally at the German. He's got a POW feeling sorry for him. Not
promising. He smokes, puffing heavily. He keeps the Germans under guard
until the MPs show up to haul them away.